


White Aches and Memories

by xaccier



Series: dream smp fics [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Dream Team SMP Lore (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Manipulation, Mentions of Bile, Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Prison, Sleepy Bois Inc Angst, Sleepy Bois Inc Fluff, Temporary Character Death, Tommy needs a hug, mentions of abuse/manipulation, tommy meets wilbur in the afterlife, wilbur gives him one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29826174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaccier/pseuds/xaccier
Summary: “It’s not your time to die, yet, Tommy.”Wilbur is dead. That’s a fact.So how come, when a large hand wraps around his, he can feel the warmth from calloused fingers seeping into his skin? How come the smell of Pogtopia invades him every time his chest heaves with a laboured breath?How come when his eyes creak open, Wilbur is standing right in front of him?—tommy needs a hug, and luckily, big brother wilbur is there to welcome him to the afterlife & hug the dead right out of him.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: dream smp fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192607
Comments: 23
Kudos: 240
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	White Aches and Memories

**Author's Note:**

> read the tags before reading for tw! there's not many, but just check and be sure :]
> 
> i believe whole-heartedly that c!tommy needs a damn hug. yes, i'm a tommy apologist <3
> 
> enjoy! (also follow my twitter, @xaccier)

It’s a painful white. The kind of white that blinds you when you pull open your curtains after sleeping in a pitch-black room. The kind of white that bounces off glass on a sunny day, searing into your irises before you have the chance to blink. The kind of white that, when you look at it too long, it burns past further than your eyes and engraves the pain into your brain. It’s all so familiar— yet it’s so different. Tommy finds himself blinking into it, being dragged by it, _wanting_ to follow it. It’s painful, and it _burns_ , but he _needs it._

His arms ache, and his head bangs with a ripping headache, but his body looks fine. He can feel phantom scratches seething, but pale skin stays intact under his bleary gaze. He can’t bring himself to ponder too hard. It’s like he’s dreaming; he knows he’s here, he knows he’s covered in white and his body is hurting, but he can’t _see_ it. He can’t comprehend it— can’t comprehend where he came from, why he’s here, what _here_ even _is._

The white is inviting. It’s a strange kind of inviting, Tommy notices. It reminds him of Phil, holding out his hand and telling him to " _trust me, Tommy,"_ despite them having just met. As though the white was someone— _something?_ — he didn’t know, but was supposed to know. Like he’d forgotten an old friend, and stumbled upon them one day with a hazy memory and a forgotten name.

He blinks into the empty space. There’s no walls, or ceilings, or floors, but he feels claustrophobic. Black and purple walls hug him tight, still, closing in on him despite being ever so far away, and he can _still_ feel the fever of cracked obsidian sitting atop a pool of gatekeeping lava seeping into his bare feet. His exposed forearms bristle with warmth, flowing magma etched into the creases of his limbs.

He shuts his eyes. His hands make their way up to blond hair and he tugs, _hard_ , bile rising in his throat. The memories teeter at the corners of his mind, rising, clouding his thoughts, overcoming his senses, and he swears he can hear a voice call out to him. But then again, he does seem to be going crazy, so who can tell?

The grip on his hair doesn’t help with the headache. It doesn’t help with voice, either, that continues edging closer until shades cluster in his closed eyelids and the smell of ash and smoke is so close that Tommy could reach out and touch it—

Cotton and leather stroke the ends of his fingertips. His beating heart stills.

_What?_

“Why are you here, Tommy?”

His throat burns. Eyes stay glued behind squeezed eyelids, fingers curling into the fabric below. _What?_

_There’s no way._

_There’s no way that you’re here._

“This isn’t real,” Tommy says. It’s a statement, but his voice wavers suspiciously.

_Wilbur is dead. That’s a fact._

So how come, when a large hand wraps around his, he can feel the warmth from calloused fingers seeping into his skin? How come the smell of Pogtopia invades him every time his chest heaves with a laboured breath?

How come when his eyes creak open, Wilbur is standing right in front of him?

Wilbur's eyebrows are knitted into a confused— worried?— expression, mouth turned down in a frown. Tommy feels water building in the corners of his eyes, but he refuses to let them spill. He refuses to believe.

This has happened before. Days, _weeks_ , after Wilbur had died. Dreams— or, more like, _nightmares_ — of Wilbur. Wilbur, and his dumb random facts and dumb songs and dumb hugs and dumb face. Wilbur, Tommy’s dumb _brother_ , of whom it took so long to get out of his head.

_Why is he back now?_

“This isn’t real,” Tommy repeats, as though he’s trying to convince himself. His eyes stay glued on the fingers he has threaded into black and brown clothes against Wilbur’s chest. “This isn’t real.”

Tommy can see in his peripherals as Wilbur’s arm lifts, his leather watch shining under the white glow around them, and his hand rests behind Tommy’s neck. The lively warmth trickles from his fingertips down Tommy’s spine, and Tommy briefly registers a tear slipping from his eyelashes. His hand balls into a frustrated fist, before finally, _finally_ , he’s pulled into Wilbur’s chest.

He breaks apart right then and there. A sob escapes him, racking down his body, and he shivers into Wilbur’s hold, pushing further, closer, trying to grasp onto him as though he’d disappear right in front of his eyes. Green and blond wisp through his brain, and he tightens the hold on his brother, needing consoling after so many months of being alone. Alone with Dream.

With Dream.

Dream. 

“D—,” Tommy tries, but a hiccup interrupts him. His hands shake. Wilbur hushes him from above, hand contracting to hold his neck more securely.

Tommy lets his knees buckle, and the two brothers slowly sink to the floor. Wilbur’s ripped cloak floats a few beats behind, swaying in the open air, Tommy’s other hand lifting to grab onto his brother’s black shirt. He tugs him closer, inhaling his _oh so familiar, homely_ scent, and Wilbur rests his chin on top of Tommy’s head.

“Why are you here, Tommy?” Wilbur asks, again. His voice shakes.

Tommy scrubs at the tear streaks down his face. He feels pathetic, but he can’t bring himself to care much. Not now, not when he can finally see Wilbur again. Not when this is finally _real_ , and not just a figment of his mourning repeating through his brain as a way to cope.

“What?” Tommy responds, swaying in Wilbur’s arms. He feels lightheaded.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Wilbur says. “The space here, for you… it disappeared.”

Tommy blinks.

He remembers their conversation.

“The space?”

Sat on the bench, Tubbo by his side, music playing softly from their shared jukebox. Light, spilling down on them, sun dipping behind blackstone towers, Wilbur’s voice falling over them from somewhere in the beyond.

_“I felt a space opening for you, here, in the afterlife.”_

“What space?” his vision spins. “Where am I, Wil?”

Wilbur’s breathing halts. Tommy flexes his fingers against Wil's chest nervously, picking at the fabric.

“You don’t belong here,” Wilbur mutters, pushing at Tommy’s shoulders. Tommy immediately grasps at his arms, silently begging for him to not leave again. To not leave him alone again. “You can’t stay here, Tommy.”

“Can’t— what? Why? You’re here. I want to stay with you, Wil.” Tommy begs, inhibition crumbling as the taller pulls away. “Please let me stay with you.”

“You don’t belong here, Tommy,” Wilbur repeats, sighing as he pulls Tommy, by the elbows, to his feet. “Not yet. It’s not your time to die, yet, Tommy.”

Memories seeps from the hearth below Tommy's waking mind. Pops of lava, obsidian flooring, netherite armour, TNT, _green._ It hits him so hard that he takes a stumbling step back.

_“It’s not your time to die yet, Tommy,” Dream says, shoving him past the edges of blackstone. Tommy's gaze rips from flowing magma to a porcelain mask, heart hitting erratically against his ribcage._

_He turns on his heels. The burning air sizzles any condensation forming at the corners of his eyes away instantly, leaving him with an insatiable sting. Dream’s harsh shove leaves his shoulder aching._

Tommy gapes up at Wilbur, horrified. Wilbur ‘s chest moves rhythmically as he exhales, hand coming up to gently rest on Tommy’s shoulder.

“Wilb—”

“Shut up, Tommy,” Wilbur interrupts, scoffing, pulling Tommy back into a hug.

Tommy stills. _This feels like goodbye._ He wraps his arms around his older brother. _I don’t want to say goodbye. We haven’t even gotten the chance to say hello yet._

“This isn’t a goodbye,” Wilbur murmurs into Tommy’s hair, as though he is reading his mind. Tommy sucks in a breath, trying to concentrate on Wil’s beating heart beneath his ear. It drums. But it shouldn’t. Wilbur is dead. “It’s a see you soon. A see you when you’re ready, if you will.”

Tommy hugs him closer. “You’re an idiot. I'm already dead, aren't I?”

There’s a laugh, so close to his ear that he feels it reverberate below his touch, and then Wilbur is disappearing right in front of him.

He scrambles at opaque clothing.

“Wilbur?” Tommy asks. “Wilbur, wait. Wait, don’t go, I’m not done. Wilbur.”

“Tommy,” Wilbur says. Tommy can see his lips tug up in a smile, a dire contrast to how his own is pulled towards the floor. “Tommy, you’re disappearing. That’s good. That’s really good, Tommy.”

“Wait, no, Wilbur, please,” he pats up and down Wilbur’s arms, trying to tug on anything he can. “I don’t want to go back, please. It’s scary there, Wil, I can’t—”

“It’s okay, Tommy,” Wilbur assures, and Tommy can feel himself starting to drown in cathartic emotions again. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I can’t go back, Wilbur,” he tries. He remembers Dream. Dream’s violence, manipulation, words. God, his hurtful words that cut so deep, Tommy might as well have been hit by a truck. He remembers where he’ll wake up, and he decides that staying dead with his now-sane brother sounds heavenly compared to it. “Please let me stay.”

“You’re already going back, Tommy,” Wilbur says, his voice dropping an octave. He reaches out and grabs Tommy’s hand, and Tommy bites back a sob when he can’t feel it. Wilbur smiles. His teeth show, and Tommy is brought back to black and yellow walls and the days of revolutionary memories.

He squeezes Wilbur’s hand, despite feeling nothing. He shuts his eyes.

_Please let me stay here forever._

Tommy clambers up into a sitting position, hand flying to his mouth as he hacks out his lungs. His throat burns, head spinning with betraying mortality, hot air sucked through gritted teeth.

“Welcome back to the overworld, Tommy,” a maniac voice speaks to him from the corner of the cell, but Tommy barely registers it. His hand grabs at empty air, desperately clawing for cotton and leather, the other hand pinching the dirtied shirt around his chest, feeling like he can’t breathe. Dream taunts, “I told you the revival book was real.”

Tommy’s arm drops back to his side, hitting the black floor with a painful thump. He doesn’t feel it through his numb skin. Wilbur’s smile has etched itself in his mind, replaying on a looping tape inside his brain.

Tommy eventually lifts himself off the burning floor, pulling his feet over to the flowing lava covering his— _their_ — cell. The heat flickers in front of his face, threatening to char, but he doesn’t back down.

He isn’t sure how long he stares. His eyes prick pitifully.

_“It’s not your time to die, yet, Tommy.”_

He reaches out to the lava. The flesh at the ends of his fingertips liquify, melting off his bones, and he hears a shout of, _“stop it, Tommy,”_ from behind him, but he ignores it. He doesn’t feel anything.

He doesn’t feel a single thing.

_“It’s not your time to die, yet, Tommy.”_

He mutters to himself, voice steady as he watches hollow-eyed at the skin dissolving from his fingers, “it’s never my time to die.”

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment if you enjoyed pls i crave validation
> 
> my twitter is @xaccier, follow if you want ;]


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